


Silver and Raspberries

by goldfishtobleroneandamitie



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Gen, Montreuil-sur-Mer era, redemption!fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-27
Updated: 2014-10-27
Packaged: 2018-02-22 19:40:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2519492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldfishtobleroneandamitie/pseuds/goldfishtobleroneandamitie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Monsieur Madeleine uses an opportunity to right an old wrong, for ih8aarontv8</p>
            </blockquote>





	Silver and Raspberries

**Author's Note:**

> For the 2014 Les Mis Trick or Treat Exchange, for ih8aarontv8--"a fic where Valjean gets to pay back Petit Gervais". I hope you like it!

“Papa, up!”

Cosette’s little hands stretch up demandingly, and a little gap-toothed smile peeks out. She’s nearly eight now, getting far too large for the bones that—despite his best efforts—are starting to creak. But her little curls are escaping from her blue velvet bonnet (absurdly extravagant for a seven-year-old, and plainly hideous to boot) and he won’t be able to pick her up for much longer, so with a smile he hitches her onto his hip.

Her little cheek nestles against his beard, cold even through the hair. It’s cold, even for the end of October, and he can feel her shiver slightly, even as bundled up as he’d insisted she be. He pulls her closer until she wriggles. “Papa, down!” With a laugh, he obeys, and she bounces over to a near shop window.

“Papa, look!” It’s the bakery, the glass near steaming in the cold air, and despite her back being to him he knows Cosette’s eyes are as round as saucers. He moves to follow her when a discussion in the next window over catches his eye.

It’s the silversmith’s shop, the owner a small but wiry man with forearms thick and corded and eyes permanently squinted from doing fine, delicate work on candlesticks and jewelry alike. He takes care of the candlesticks whenever they need polishing, and Madeleine had been considering buying a necklace for Cosette for Christmas anyway. However, Madeleine is not looking at the silversmith, but rather his companion—cleaner, to be sure, and older, but with the same battered hat.

Moving towards the pair, he catches bits of their conversation. “Name?”

“Gervais, monsieur.” The hat’s come off now, twisted in the boy’s hands—bigger now, larger than the rest of him, the epitome of a fifteen-year-old boy.

“Any experience?”

“None, sir.”

“Then why should I hire you?” The smith’s words are unkind, but his manner more brusque—he is a simple man, straightforward, and not given to niceties. He and Madeleine meet at the tavern sometimes, when the mayor attends functions and mixes with his citizens, and he is a good man if not overly given to charity.

“I—I—“

“I do not have the time to train an apprentice from scratch,” the silversmith continues, a bit more gently. “You would not be profitable for at least a year, after you have learned the basics of metalworking. My wife has just had our fourth, and this is a lean year for silver. I am sorry.”

“I understand.” The hat twists harder, and Madeleine sees the seams begin to give.

“How much for the first year, Dubois?”

The man eyes him, asking a question with his eyebrows, but Madeleine returns the gaze calmly and giving nothing away.

After a moment, the smith shrugs. “Twenty louis.”

It’s fair, if a bit high, but Madeleine hands over the money. “Buy him a new hat.” The urchin—Gervais, petit Gervais—watches wide-eyed as Madeleine hands over the coins.

“Aye, Monsieur le Maire.” The coins clink together as the silversmith’s fingers close, and he motions to the still-stunned Gervais with his shoulder. “Come inside.”

Madeleine turns back to the bakery and walks towards his daughter, not catching the incredulous stare of the young man in the shop door.

He approaches the window and kneels next to her—still taller, but able to follow her eyeline to a raspberry tart, drizzled with chocolate. “That one, my love?”

“Yes, papa. That one.”

“Come, then. And don’t tell Cook, shall we?”

She giggles and nods. “Up!”

He obeys, and shoulders open the bakery door.


End file.
